Oct. 8, 2018
Bare feet touch hardwood floors
as ice cold rain so heavy pours
from melancholy clouds filling the sky.
Grips o’ rainy Monday and eight A.M.
my body wishes not to move
’til fills my mind, the scent
of coffee, freshly brewed
and strength swells my legs and spine;
naked body painted in frigged air.
Where’s my robe? My tired throat musters
and I shuffle
to the coffee pot, past the foggy window,
with glowing embers of my soul
thirsty to reignite ‘pon first sip,
and I whisper
to sacred earth that she may have some, too,
if she thinks it will change her attitude,
’cause honey, if Monday comes as this,
what will Tuesday bring?